Plane Ride Home
by WeShouldRiot
Summary: Set during Truth or Consequences- a bit of an explanation to the plane ride home directly after Ziva's rescue. Oneshot. First NCIS fic, criticisms accepted.


That plane ride home had been painful for him. He remembers sitting there, strapped into the C130, thinking to himself that he hadn't known pain until that moment, when he looked down at her head on his lap.

His next thought had been one of shame and self-loathing. How could he be feeling bad for himself? How could he possibly think he understood pain? The broken girl on his legs was a reminder of things that he'd probably never be able to wrap his head around.

He doesn't remember how they got this way. Physically, or generally, in terms of their relationship. He can't remember much after the trek down the dusty hallway, dragging her, with McGee's help. He'd been pulling her, hard. He'd wanted nothing more in that moment than to get her away, get her out of the camp, get her to safety.

A sudden jolt of guilt hit him, bile rose in his throat. He'd been way too rough with her in the hallway. He'd been grabbing and clutching at her, and God knows she'd had enough of that over the summer. Images and ideas he didn't want to think about flooded his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut, and banged his head back against the wall behind him.

He looked down at her again. He didn't know what to do with his hands. He was afraid to touch her. Partially afraid that he might hurt her, and equally scared that he wouldn't recognize the feel of her. Scared that she might feel as lifeless as she looked.

Her hair was matted, tangled, caked with dirt. She'd never been one to fuss about her hair, but the way it looked now was rubbing him the wrong way. He became fidgety and itchy, and with her head in his lap the way it was, he couldn't look at anything but her.

She looked completely out of character. He wanted something to hold on to, something to remind him that this woman was still his little fighter. His warrior, his soldier. Ultimately, that's what made him reach for her hair. He touched the lock closest to him with timid fingers, surveying the damage. He had been almost sure that she wasn't asleep, despite her closed eyes.

At the feel of his touch, her body tensed. She curled inward, towards herself, flinching at a pain that scarred her memories. He continued with his gentle exploration of her hair, pretending her violent reaction hadn't even happened.

He pressed his nail into the middle of the solid piece of hair, breaking the small layer of mud that encased it. He worked carefully, separating the hairs that were trapped in grime and tangled within each other. He focused only on her hair, softening it with his hands and running the finished products through his fingers. It took a lot of effort for him to not look down at her eyes, staring directly ahead. The vacant look she'd adopted still sent chills through him, flooding him with ice cold thoughts and fear so intense that it hurt. He had been making good progress, and was pleased with his efforts. Her hair still looked nothing like how he remembered it, but it was the best he could do.

It was when he was struggling with a particularly tangly curl, that he saw some of the more hidden signs of her abuse. At the base of the hair he'd been fingering, was what he'd written off as a hardened piece of dirt. When he brushed it with the pad of his finger, expecting it to crumble away, she flinched again. He recoiled when he realized it was a scab. He pulled her hair away from her damaged skin, and his throat tightened when he saw the extent of the injury. From the center of the back of her head, to just above her right ear, there were random dark patches. If he hadn't spent so much time looking at her hair, he might not have noticed them. The thinness of her hair, the cracking of the dry skin on her scalp. She'd had her hair ripped out, over and over again. Forcefully. He breathed deeply, and looked down again. Flesh was torn away in layers from her head, and what should have been an angry red, or a dark dried-blood brown, was merely as layered in dirt as the rest of her was. He tried hard not to keep thinking about the mutilation, but couldn't stop himself from looking at it. The sight was more than disturbing, and the thought of something so barbaric clenched angry hands around his neck. He fought the urge to vomit, and pressed his palms against his eyes.

He hid from the feelings, the emotions. He numbed himself to reality, much in the same way she used to. He continued his work on her hair, determined to make one thing in this situation right. He tuned out real life while he separated her curls, ran his fingers through her hair. He lost track of time while he just touched her, simply and carefully.

He tried to picture how she looked, prior to all of this, but he couldn't remember a time before she looked so hopeless. His memories of her wouldn't come, and that was terrifying. Finally, his imagination locked on to something, and all he could think of was how she always used to braid her hair. That braid that clung tight to her head, the braid that he'd seen on countless women, but couldn't figure out. The intertwining of hair and the never-ending pattern of criss-crossing always mind boggled him.

It was a French braid, something he wasn't sure he'd ever comprehend. He separated her hair into the three sections he knew were going to be needed. He spent more time than necessary ensuring that they were all of equal size. He braided her hair loosely, careful not to pull. It was therapeutic, the pattern of outside overlapping inside. When he finished, he leaned back to examine his work. She had one braid. From the top of her head, trailing pitifully down to the top of her back.

She never wore her hair like this.

He had done it completely wrong.

Anger won over all of his other emotions. He couldn't even braid her hair the right way. He couldn't save her psychologically, even if he had physically rescued her. He couldn't do anything right, and nothing he could do would bring back the woman that had left him alone, no more than three months earlier. He undid the braid mechanically, and ran his fingers through her hair again.

He reached for her forehead, to brush the stray hair away from it. Her eyes were heavy, and he wondered if she had fallen asleep with her eyes open. Slowly, the hand under her head moved. She reached up desperately, searching for his hand. He found her hand quietly, and she grasped his palm, his thumb. She wasn't holding his hand, she was holding onto him.

She didn't release her grip on him, and he waited for the next move, holding his breath. She shifted, turning a bit more onto her back. With her last press of energy, she brought their intertwined hands together, on top of her chest. He squeezed lightly, letting her know that he was there. She held on to his hand, as if holding on to her own life.


End file.
